Post your best work thus far and see how shit it and you actually are

Post your best work thus far and see how shit it and you actually are.

Other urls found in this thread:

sheramil.dreamwidth.org/2013/07/18/
twitter.com/NSFWRedditImage

Buttons and all he stood to look tall.
Marching away with a rythm, pinching at the seams, clocking like the hooves, thumping his drums, he was a marching boy, 13 years tall.
He felt mighty, like his old stead, and his fathers mead.
He thumped and drummed, the old one gone.
Grown he had shown, his jacket now snug, like arms of when new, and war of then young.
Now old and abused by the sound of the weapons used.
Shocked and made mortal, he thumps on now for ever startled.

Frannie took a long draw from her menthol and ran a hand under her baby bump. Her short dark hair riffled in the Wal Mart parking lot breeze while waiting for Eddie, who was just coming out with bags of value priced groceries.

Eduardo saw her standing in her jean shorts, too-small tee, and pale Ohio skin. He knew it would be difficult raising another man's child, but goddamn the snapping pussy was worth it.

The moon's soft golden meshes make
All night a veil;
The shore-lamps in the sleeping lake
Laburnum tendrils trail.

The sly reeds whisper in the night
A name—her name,
And all my soul is a delight,
A swoon of shame.

Phhhhtt plat plat plat
Chut hut hut kikikiki
ghreeeeeeee ghreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Thank you, that was "Phonetic Reproduction of the Heavenly Sounds of The Songbirds of the Massachusetts Cape Cod National Seashore"

last time i did this some weird french person wanted to buy my book

jingle bells
your diary smells
op is a fag

Best is subjective but okay.

Prologue:
“Fuck,” he says, in between debilitating, body wracking coughs. He finally manages to croak out, “That’s some good weed^1 .”
Whilst dragging his fingers through his dispersed ashy hair, he mindlessly sniffs at some nasal drip coming out. The mucous clotting in his right nostril, resisting the antagonization of gravity. He settles backwards into the large pseudo-suede armchair, letting it adjust to his asymmetrical architecture. The Smartmatter™^2 creating a low atmospheric buzz as the seat morphs around his form.
Drugs are his own personal diabolatry, the amoral rite he comprehensively fulfills upon waking. Glassware, empty prescription bottles, lighters, and baggies with red cartoon mushrooms on them form a diminutive jungle atop his coffee table.
A mysterious high pitched moaning suddenly begins to gestate. “Fuck me Jerry, fuck me like you’ve never fucked before.” Jerry, our very own stoner, begins to writhe around in the chair, shoving his arms underneath himself, digging into the chair, which creates holes for him as it adjusts to his touch. Like some fucked up fever dream, soon he is plunging into his recliner elbow deep while the sexual wails continue to assault his ear drums.
“Where the FUCK is my god damn remote!”
Finally, after more plunging and thrusting, he finds the hard-black phallus of the device enveloped within the folds beneath him.
He pulls out and activates the singular large button, “Mute it for the love of god!”
The sexual requests continue and a feminine voice chimes in, “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
“MUTE!”

1: Weed, also known as “The Devil’s Lettuce,” is the pastime of the Unemployed, Unemployable, and Artists (What’s the difference between the three anyway?) everywhere.

2: Smartmatter™ was created by renowned entrepreneur Don Zizek in the year 2032, originally designed for use in Military Body Armor. However, Ikea quickly found a use for it in the form of self-assembling furniture. Gone are the days of unfathomable instructions designed by obsessive Swedes.

If this is part of a poem or something I really really like this user.
I'm not sure how well it would flow if it's just supposed to be prose though.
The writing style isn't my personal favorite, but I don't think it's bad either. The "story" has enough intrigue to make me want to read more.
Cliche? Yes
Do I like it a lot? Also yes

>t. ghost of DFW

Everytime I post anything I've written that's all I hear.
The problem is I've never read DFW.

Maybe he possessed me, according to google, the time he died just about matches up when I first got into creative writing.

>I'm not sure how well it would flow if it's just supposed to be prose though.
No idea tbfh i just write for fun

After the assholes had left I went below to check on my pitiful pile of belongings. I unwrapped the fake skin. Long ago I'd counted the packets. There had been one hundred and seven; now, one hundred and six.

I picked up a packet, held it up to my 'phone's light. It could have been powdered chalk, baby laxatives, Heisenberg's original recipe; anything. When I was very young I remembered pharmaceuticals came in neat foil packets, with a label that told you what it was supposed to be; sometimes, even, what it was supposed to do. Distrust of big pharma had eroded that down to nothing. As the Fab revolution had gained speed, medicine had become more customised, personally tailored, to where you didn't take something unless you'd either made it yourself or trusted the hell out of the person who gave it to you. One of the stupidest things you could do as a kid was to try something first. Usually with fatal results. I liked to think I wasn't stupid, but I wanted to know what this stuff was and why Thel was serving it.

Well, hell. She had enough of a grasp on the language... so I asked her.

"Single amyloid fold prionic agent, causing ablation of the cingulate gyrus and selective inhibition of transmission along the mesolimbic pathway."

The only word in all that I recognised was "prionic", and I knew it wasn't good. I had to browse my 'phone's medical wiki for about twenty minutes before I glanced up at her sharply. "Reduction of impulses related to volition," she added.

My eyes widened. "Slack," she concluded.

My laugh was mostly nervous dismay. "Won't they starve to death?"

She stared back at me. "Newkind are fed by their machines."

"But they'll... they'll become -"

Her eyebrows came down in what was, for her, a torrent of emotional display. "Less threatening." Her voice was even, calm; no anger, no hatred, no self-reproach. Just another day at the zoo.

I held the packet between thumb and forefinger, suddenly conscious of how thin the plastic wrap was. She reached out, took it, held it over the full carafe, smooshed it. The powder floated down, briefly formed a spreading mat on the surface, soaked through and began to dissolve. She was presumably immune to it, being an alien. I wasn't. Nervously, I backed away; already aware of what the answer would be, I had to ask: "What gives you the right?"

She stirred the water with the knife blade. "This problem is Newkinds' problem. Newkind do not see a problem, are not solving. By extension it becomes humans' problem. Yours to solve. Humans are not solving. Newkind attack others; it becomes others' problem. Others to solve."

A stone grinding sound behind me; Dutch was awake, pushing the panel up, peering through, blinking in the light. She yawned, waved a hand at Thel. "What's she up to?"

"Poisoning the customers," I retorted sourly. Dutch frowned.

"That's generally bad for business."

Thel dropped the knife. It embedded itself in the counter, point first. "Take it out of my cut," she said with the faintest trace of sarcasm, "before one of them takes a cut out of you."

Dutch's brow smoothed. "You have a point there."

I turned on her. "Are you condoning genocide?"

She waved her hand, then winced at the pain. "No. Not as such. Not in so many words. Not exactly. Well, yes."

My eyes widened again. "You can't -"

Wearily, she interrupted. "They shouldn't. Them. You know. Our customers. They shouldn't, but they do. There's no-one to stop them. They won't stop themselves, and their machines exist to validate their behaviour, not to restrict it." She closed her eyes, exhaled, and gingerly climbed out of the hatch. I reached down to help her. "See? That. You helped me. They wouldn't. They can't. They don't know that they're supposed to. With their machines, they don't need to help each other, so why would they help anyone else? If you want a justification, their development has taken them outside the social contract. They're criminals, if you want, and there are more of them than there are of us. If you want."

I looked down at my hooves, and sat down as far from the counter as I could get. "I don't want. If there are more of them than... us..." waving first to the alien, then the genetic construct, and then at myself, the outcast, "then they define what is normal. Their society, their rules."

Dutch gave me a pitying look. "Without impulses towards cooperation and altriusm, it's not a society."

I glared at her. She continued. "Besides, you're just worried that if someone can do this to them, they might do it to you. You don't care about them, and if you do, you're an idiot, because they don't care about you."

I pointed out in the general direction of the Newkinds' apartment block, with my left hand, which still had a sock over it. Angrily I tore the sock off and pointed again. "THEY aren't trying to paralyse ME with atypical encephalitis."

Dutch closed her eyes and exhaled. "If you got in their way, they would. The only reason you're still alive is because of your skill at avoiding them."

I stood up, pushed my mask down, drew my sock-gloves up to my elbows. "I'm not going to be a part of this." Thel didn't try to stop me. Dutch wouldn't. I pushed one airlock flap open, then the other, and marched up to the Newkind block. I found a garage gate and banged on it with both fists; no response. I banged again, and kept thumping until I heard a scraping sound coming from somewhere inside. I took a few steps back, expecting the gate to swivel out and fold back.

They shot me with a taser.

the whole thing is at:

sheramil.dreamwidth.org/2013/07/18/

>taking up 3 whole posts to plug your blog
>could of just posted blog

Ehhhhh.

It reads like standard genre fiction to me, at least prose wise. It's rather simplistic but structured in a way to present some level of complication. That plus the overtly scientific terms gives it a very pulpy (and not in a good way to my mind) feel.

BUT, the story does intrigue me. I'm not entirely sure where it's going, but I would probably read more despite the prose.

stop using wacky footnotes, that was his gimmick. make me feel what the characters feel, try describing the action without painfully overworked expressions ("antagonization of gravity", "diminutive jungle"). and can a high pitched moaning really be mysterious???

>could of
could have.

I'm using the footnotes for an extra level of humor to the work, and so I can provide humor in meta ways + use a Narrator's voice without having to use it in the main body of the story.
Humor (along with the overarching themes of the plot) are the primary drivers to the book.
It's meant to be as equally entertaining as it thought provoking.

I'm not going to "tell" the emotions of the characters, I want them to be interpreted via their surroundings & their actions. Much like a real person, I want you to have to use emotive skills to figure out how the character is feeling, and at least in this intro paragraph, Jerry is feeling annoyed & tired, both of which I feel are conveyed via the text in current form.

The "painfully overworked expressions" as you call them, are going to be something to set my style of writing apart. Rather than resorting to cliches, I want to use terms that feel as if they COULD be cliches, but aren't, and basically force some deeper thinking by using out of the ordinary phrases.

Plus I want a surrealistic atmosphere, as if the reader were witnessing the story under the effects of mindbending drugs, and one way to do that, is to have the environment be understandable but in a very nonstandard way.

I wrote
>could of

>I'm using the footnotes for an extra level of humor to the work, and so I can provide humor in meta ways + use a Narrator's voice without having to use it in the main body of the story.
>Humor (along with the overarching themes of the plot) are the primary drivers to the book.
>It's meant to be as equally entertaining as it thought provoking.


>user gives literally the same defense of his work that DFW would have given
you need to see a priest, user-kun

OP wanted the best thing we've written. that was it. i don't advertise on that livejournal clone, i don't get paid for it, and i am not typing in howeverthemanyfucking captchas i would have to type in order to post all of an 18,000 word story.

if i'd just posted the blog, nobody would have given a shit.

No one does anyways
We just care about you

nobody gives a shit now though

>It's rather simplistic

it's an excerpt from near the end of the story.

it started off as an homage to Burroughs' Socco Chico routine, and then kind of went off in its own direction. before i knew what was going on i found myself advocating the poisoning of people with severe asperger's.

you wrote "could of". and it's wrong.

No I wrote
">could of"

could of been wrong, could not of been. in this case its not.

That would certainly explain why I only escaped death because I forgot the safety was on before pulling the trigger.

Whaddya say? 50/50 odds of either being accused of ripping off DFW or making it big?

Maybe 80/20?

"could of been wrong" is also wrong.

but people say it all the time, so it's not wrong. linguistics is descriptive not prescriptive.